The Blade Which Cuts, The Elixir Which Heals
by sher-lochnessmonster
Summary: "...John had given up. Finally, after months and months of complete and utter agony, he'd snapped. He hadn't finished being angry, hadn't said all he wanted to, he'd just not got enough energy to even try and make Sherlock listen to him anymore." Angsty (but there's a happy ending, I promise) piece encompassing the, sometimes rocky, relationship between Sherlock and John.
1. 14:32

It was the several moments silence which truly broke Sherlock's heart. Not the words spoken, well, shouted, whilst the two men raged at one another in the front room. Not the tense, angry glares which lead up to the almost screaming. Not even the disagreement which had triggered the glaring. It was the silence. The several moments of it which fell over the room once they had both stopped firing vicious, hurtful words at the other. It was a signal that all had been said and done. That the anger had dissipated and they had both said their piece and now all they wanted was to forget the whole sorry affair. Except, it wasn't, and that was why Sherlock's insides felt like they were being crushed the moment it arrived.

He knew what it truly signalled; knew what the silence truly meant. It meant John had given up. Finally, after months and months of complete and utter agony, he'd snapped. He hadn't finished being angry, hadn't said all he wanted to, he'd just not got enough energy to even try and make Sherlock listen to him anymore.

That hurt. Really fucking hurt, and as much as Sherlock knew that it was his fault, he didn't have any right to feel hurt, it still felt like a punch in the gut.

He'd broken John. Broken him down into this tired, flat version of his former self. A man with pain behind his eyes and a slumped posture because he no longer had the energy to even stand upright. He'd broken the strongest man he'd ever known; the proud, loyal soldier he'd fallen in love with and it hurt.

He wished it didn't. He wished he was as cold and as heartless as John gave him credit for, but he wasn't. Sherlock was a ball of stupid emotion and stupid feelings and, God, this was a mess.

As they both stood, drawing in terse, ragged breaths and never losing eye contact, Sherlock wished, not for the first time, that he'd never opened his mouth and uttered those fateful words.

The silence seemed to go for an eternity, and then, John sighed.

'I... I don't even know what to do anymore, Sherlock.'

* * *

So... short, I know, but hey - at least the updates will be quicker (I hope!). If it wasn't clear, the chapter titles are the time at which the chapter takes place (this is quite important further on). Thanks for reading, reviews are greatly appreciated! ~sher_lochnessmonster xo


	2. 14:02

'We're out of milk.'

It's a statement. Well, actually, John thinks, it's an order. Unspoken, but implied. Definitely implied. It always is. Well, nowadays it is, anyway. Sherlock never speaks to him unless he's, not-so subtly, telling him to do things without actually telling him to do them. For what seems to be the millionth time today, John sighs and rubs his temples. He's tired of Sherlock's shit.

'Good,' he says and then says nothing more. Sat in his chair, aching and weary of this life that's come to be his, John can't be bothered to do as Sherlock asks; not even for the promise of an easy life. John closes his eyes and leans back, sinking further into the chair that used to offer comfort, but now only serves to supply bittersweet memories and lumpy cushions.

His approach to Sherlock's words has seemingly provoked actual activity (God forbid, John thinks, his thoughts sarcastic and rather bitter) from Sherlock. He leaps up from his sprawling position on the sofa, and goes to stand in front of John. It is only when Sherlock has been stood there, barefoot and clad in barely more than his dressing-gown, for a good minute, does John let his eyelids flutter open.

'Yes?' He asks, looking for all the world as if he doesn't know what caused the sudden flurry (the first in what has to be a couple of weeks) of energy from Sherlock

But Sherlock's better than that. He's a genius. The world's only consulting detective. The cleverest man John has ever met. He doesn't fall for it. He knows that John knows why he's moved to stand before him.

'We're out of milk.'

John grits his teeth.

* * *

Woo! Two chapters in a day, yay me! Next chapter will be the rest of this screaming match and then (maybe) I'll let things get fluffy. Or maybe I won't and I'll extend the angst into an all out angst fest (knowing me this is probably more likely). Hmmm... decisions, decisions XD ~sher_lochnessmonster xo


	3. 14:04

And what, precisely, are you telling me this for?' The words are spoken slowly, as if speaking them any louder would result in an overflow of rage. John's so bloody tired of being Sherlock's inconsequential little errand-runner, biting the words out as if any minute they might bite him.

Sherlock looks at him strangely. Like he's seeing John for the first time. Seeing a side he didn't even know existed, and he's not liking it. The spiteful part of John thinks 'Good, serves him damn well right' but whatever part of him that took up, John's heart was always Sherlock's. A special little part of him full of kindness and overwhelming love for the infuriating man in front of him. Beating for him, even.

Right now, it was screaming at him to just go and buy the goddamn milk and stop acting like a dick, but John was too tired to listen.

For months he'd done as his heart asked. He'd, not once with complaint or question, done what Sherlock wanted. He'd dealt with the weeks of inactivity, the sullen silence, the mood swings and even the blatant attacks on John's competence. He cooked, cleaned, fetched, carried and all of it for a man who only spoke a few words at a time. Sherlock barely even looked at him. It hurt, and y'know what, John was sick of it.

He was sick of loving a man who didn't love him in return, didn't even care. He was sick of running back and forth on the whim of another and was sick of being tired.

'Because I want milk and we don't have any.'

* * *

So... I think I unintentionally extended this into an all out angst fest. DON'T HATE ME I'M SORRY IT'LL BE BETTER SOON (PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE). Next chapter will actually contain the argument and then, well...  
Much love ~sher_lochnessmonster xo


	4. 14:07

Sherlock knows he's overstepped the mark as soon as the words leave his mouth. There's a moment's pause and then, John explodes.

'Fuck you,' he spits, rage filling each syllable, 'You selfish, egocentric bastard. How dare you? _I cared about you.'_'

For a moment the rage subsides, morphs into bitter humour, and John chuckles darkly, 'Stupid me, eh? That'll teach me to listen to Sally Donovan, won't it? She knew, y'know, she knew. Knew you were a psychopath and, in the end, you'd screw me over.'

Inside, Sherlock feels each vitriol-laced word hit him like a blade slicing open his organs, but outside, he stands impassively. He lets the words wash over him, let their flames lick at his heart, because he knows he deserves this. His apparent lack of emotion, however, serves to do nothing but further enrage John.

'Do you even care now? Do you? Or is their only space in your genius brain to care about yourself? You've done nothing for weeks, Sherlock, _nothing_. Did you think that'd be okay? To just fester on the sofa? Did you expect everything that needed doing to do itself?' John laughs again, 'No – of course you didn't. You just expected me to do it. I'm not a dog, Sherlock. I'm a fucking human being. Your _friend_. And you just treated me like shit whilst you wallowed in your misery.'

John shakes his head, and suddenly, it's like the anger has gone. Deflated, and defeated, he just seems to collapse in on himself, like the anger was the only thing holding him together.

'He's dead, Sherlock,' John's voice is barely more than a whisper, 'Moriarty is dead. The sooner you realise there's more to life than the distractions he provided, the better, because everyone who ever cared about you is being dragged down by your selfishness. He's gone, Sherlock, gone. You need to accept that, and move on. For everyone's sake.'

* * *

Sorry it took me so long but I've kinda been swamped in all of my lack of motivation to do anything but sleep (aka I have no reasonable excuse for not posting this sooner but hey-ho it's here now). Anyway, this was more extension of the argument. Woops. I can't seem to let it end - but hopefully, I'll get my shit together and the argument will be over and done with (yay for the upcoming fluff) in two or less chapters. Hopefully.


End file.
